The French Mistake
by Shannedo
Summary: In which Tom teaches Matt to be a man and Matt teaches Dom to be a figure skater. Fluffy. One-shot.


_**A/N: **This is for the fabulous Martyna's birthday (I think she's 17? don't eat me) and I love her so yeh. Also I'm not very talented forgive me love. I don't own anything. Especially Muse. And I know I totally ripped the title from Supernatural shhh I don't own that either. Also Torvill & Dean are famous English ice-skaters for reference. I don't know how famous they are worldwide._

_Whispers that I neglected Chris. Don't kill me. I love him but Tom was better suited for the supporting character *cries* I'm sorry Chris baby._

_Music: **Mistakes** by **Phildel**. _

_I don't own that either.  
I wish I did.  
*cries*_

* * *

When he looked up, Tom caught Matt staring over his shoulder. Again. For the billionth time that day. And it was noon. He had the same look on his face, like a lovesick puppy, long tapered fingers drumming on the desk.

With a slight grimace, Tom's head dropped back to the computer. The card design just wasn't pulling together in his distracted state of mind. And finally, he was tired.

"Matt," he snapped, causing the little brunet to jump.

"Hm?"

"Can you stop it? It's impossible to work with you playing Juliet, y'know."

Matt's cheeks went pink and his gaze snapped back down to his page. He mumbled something, ripped a page from the notebook and cast the crumpled paper into his overflowing bin. "I was thinking." After a small sigh, he carded his fingers through his fluffy hair.

Tom scoffed and, for the first time, ventured a glance over his shoulder, finding Matt's obsession almost instantly. "The hot blonde?"

"...Yes."

Tom's eyebrow went up as a leggy blonde woman stretched over some guy's desk to grab a pen, giving him a nice view. "Damn, I don't blame you. That's a nice arse."

"Amazing legs."

He hummed in agreement, neither man realising they were slavering over completely different people. Tom's eyes were locked on the busty blonde busy flirting with the object of Matt's affections, a toned, tanned guy with sandy hair and stormy eyes. "What's the name?" Tom asked, licking his lips.

Matt scratched his head. "Dom... I think?"

"Dominique? A french girl? Ooh lala," Tom remarked with a childish giggle.

Matt blanked. _"What?"_

"What 'what'?"

"Who are you checking out?"

"Who the bloody hell are you checking out?!"

Matt cast his best friend an incredulous look. "Dominic. Dominic Howard. Y'know, the blond guy practically being groped by that girl over there?"

With a snort, Tom turned back to his computer. "Woah, mate. I was checking out the bird doing the groping!" he said. "Okay, we weren't even on the same planet there."

Matt kicked him in the shin under the table, causing him to jump. "Problem?"

"No!" Tom said, almost defensive. He watched Matt's eyes drift back, fingers starting their incessant rhythm. "Damn it, Bellamy. Stop moping, go ask him out!"

Matt looked horrified. "Are you mad?" he asked. Catching the weary look Tom cast him, he added "What if he isn't... gay?"

"Then he isn't. And you don't get a date. Beats this thirteen again routine," he answered. "And does he actually look interested in that girl? No. I bet he hasn't even noticed her."

With a quick glance, Matt saw Dominic did in fact look disinterested in the woman, who was a sight for sore eyes. He was polite, if slightly curt towards her, not really smiling much. And she seemed frustrated, though she hid it well and continued to incessantly bat her lashes.

"Go for it," Tom said, offering an encouraging smile.

The small man's hands balled into nervous fists and he stood quickly. _Not bailing now _he thought and tentatively went over to Dominic's desk.

Dominic Howard designed greetings cards for a living, layouts, graphics and all. And he loved working with Matthew, who people deemed the office's best writer. They were quite the talk of the break room, their co-workers gossiping and fantasising about their relationship over coffee and biscuits. They were a dynamic pair; Dom lacked Matt's way with words, but his eye for visuals rivalled even Tom's, the computer genius. When he looked up and saw the tiny brunet standing there and shaking, he spun a little in his chair to face him. "Hey," he said with a warm smile, totally blanking the now deflated woman.

"Uh, hi, Dom," Matt mumbled, feeling his courage scarper. The woman - Ella - frowned and walked off, causing Matt to feel guilty.

"How are you?"

"Yeah, great thanks," he replied with a smile. "You?"

"Not bad. Quotas to fill, creativity block, you know how it is," Dom replied easily. He pushed a stray golden lock of hair from his eyes and smiled. "What can I do for you?"

It was almost like Matt had instantly unlearned the English language. "I. Um. I was..." Matt trailed off, his eyes darting to Tom, who was repressing sniggers.

"Don't mind him," Dom offered, chuckling.

"Right," Matt's eyes darted to the flyer on Dom's neat desk, advertising the fundraiser dance. It looked like a black tie event and was raising money for... a rowing club? What? "Erm... I was wondering if you. Well. The fundraiser thing is coming up. I thought maybe you'd want to go... with me?"

Dom's eyes flashed with something between amusement and affection. "I dunno, mate. I think Ella's planning on asking me."

"Oh. Right. That's cool," Matt stuttered and turned to all but run back to his desk.

"Matt!" Dom said. He leaned forward and caught Matt's wrist, holding him in place.

Matt froze at the sudden contact and spun back to him, looking down at Dom's long, callused fingers wrapped around his skinny wrist.

"I was only yanking your foot," the blond admitted, grinning. "You seriously want to go to a _dance _to raise money for some Eden-educated prats in their white rowing boats?"

"Not really."

Dominic chuckled.

"Ice skating, maybe?" Matt asked.

It was Dom's turn to falter. "Only if you're okay with being pulled over a million times."

"Sounds like a laugh."

* * *

"You're seriously crap at this," Matt said with a giggle, grabbing Dom's arm as he nearly overbalanced.

Dom chuckled and playfully poked at Matt. "Well, if I'd been good, you'd have had an excuse to skate off," he reasoned, sliding across the ice next to Matt. "When did you learn how to do this?"

"Honestly... my mum made me take lessons when I was a kid," he replied, blushing.

That provoked a grin from the blond. "That's cute," he said, watching in awe as Matt started skating backwards in front of him. "I can just imagine a four year old you falling on his arse."

"S'cuse me, I was a young Christopher Dean!"

Through his laughter, Dom lost his balance and toppled forward, pulling his date down with him. Landing softly on Matt, he apologised, giggling a little.

Matt looked up at Dom, ignoring the ice soaking through his jumper. He was so devilishly cute, ruffled blonde hair, flickering grey eyes. And, without thinking, he leaned up for a kiss. When their lips met, Dom fell silent and - once his shock had passed - kissed back. It was gentle and soft, their reddened noses bumping against each other.

Dom finally pulled back, smiling sweetly. "Thanks."

"For what?"

"... For asking me out, I guess. I've never had the courage."

A moment of companionable silence followed until Matt shifted uncomfortably, his spine pressing against the ice. "Come on, you still can't skate away from the barrier."

After a short scuffle in which Matt needed to help Dom get up, Dom took Matt's hand in his and gripped it tight. "Soon I'll be Torvill to your Dean."

"Look, I know I'm amazing, but that would take a miracle!" Matt joked, pulling Dominic along.

Numerous falls and victories later, they huddled together in a little booth in the cafe adjoined to the rink. They joked and talked and laughed together, stealing the odd kiss. That was until Matt painted Dom's nose with the cream on top of his hot chocolate and their chatter descended into stealthy whipped cream warfare.

And somewhere Tom Kirk, that smug bastard, was busy being incredibly pleased with himself. It was a match made in heaven, after all.


End file.
